Through the Stones
by Xanoka
Summary: Claire very nearly reached the Stones before being carted off to Fort William, but what if Frank had only taken those crazy local superstitions seriously for a second? This could become very awkward. A Frank story, based on Episode 8 (From Both Sides Now). Sorry, Jamie, I still love you best!


Frank groaned. He was lying face down in soft, damp earth, a tuft of grass tickling his nose.

He would probably have grass stains on his coat and trousers.

He groaned again, feeling miserable and foolish.

Damn local superstition! All it had gotten him was potentially ruined clothing and bruised pride. As if his wife's disappearance wasn't enough.

 _She hasn't left me_ , a small insistent voice at the back of his mind whispered, summoned by the thought as it always was. It was fainter and less convincing than it had been even a day ago.

Before he had any more time to descend into self-pity he heard a snatch of voices somewhere beyond the standing stones, followed by a woman's scream.

 _Claire!_

It sounded just like her, though he'd never heard her sound like that, and hoped he never would again.

Without thinking, he struggled to his feet, heedless of his fine Saville Row trousers and coat, sacrificed to the mud.

"Claire!" he called indistinctly as he flung a hand out to lean on one of the stones for support as he looked around wildly to get his bearings.

She screamed again, and he finally spotted her, only about two hundred metres away from the circle, but rapidly being dragged away by three men in red and white uniforms.

If Frank had taken a moment to reflect he might have thought the uniforms odd. Another moment and he might have recognised them as the Redcoat uniforms used by the British military between the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries. He might even have wondered why English soldiers were stationed in Scotland.

As it was, all he could comprehend was that his wife – _his wife! –_ was screaming and struggling in the grip of three armed men, one of whom was raising some kind of rifle, and appeared to be aiming its butt at her head.

"Stop!" he roared, startling even himself.

The group froze, turning (or in Claire's case, twisting) to watch him stride towards them.

He could only suppose his anger must have been impressive, as the soldier immediately lowered his rifle, while his fellows seemed to shrink back as he approached. Claire, for her part, had stopped struggling – their grip seemed to have slackened, anyway – and was watching him intently.

"What do you think you are you _doing_?" Frank glared, and was surprised to see the three men quail. One had even lost colour.

"Beggin' your pardon, sir. We was under orders to capture the English woman as escaped from the garrison at Brockton and take her to Fort William," the bravest of the three ventured.

Frank stared blankly.

Fort William? Escaped? Claire? Was _that_ where Claire had been? Arrested for some unfathomable reason? (But hadn't they checked all the local police stations and prisons, along with all the hospitals and morgues?) But then, he remembered Reverend Wakefield mentioning Fort William at some point. It was an English fortress used by the English during the Jacobite Rebellion. Long destroyed, of course.

Frank felt the first prickling of unease. He absorbed the uniforms Claire assailants were wearing for the first time. They were staring back at him, looking at his clothing strangely, though their eyes snapped smartly to some point in the middle distance as soon as they realised where he was looking.

Glancing at Claire, he could see now that she was wearing a truly voluminous green dress, complete with corset and – was that a _bustle_?

Her chest was still heaving, and she was gazing at him with single-minded focus, reminding him of his priorities.

"Let her go!" His voice, he noted with satisfaction, was steady, and hopefully conveyed more confidence and authority than he felt.

The men glanced at each other uncertainly, then back at him. They seemed almost afraid, though he couldn't fathom why.

"Now!" Impatiently, he took a step forward.

As if released from a spring, all three men recoiled, one practically shoving Claire into his arms. After much doffing of hats and saluting – _what?_ – they retreated towards a wood several hundred metres away, leaving him alone with Claire.

She had almost doubled up, nursing some unseen hurt in her side, and for a moment he felt fury at those men who must have hurt her. Even so, she continued staring at him with burning intensity, craning her neck awkwardly, _warily_ , to keep her eyes on him, her hair falling loose and dishevelled around her face.

He swallowed, suddenly wordless.

He had imagined this moment obsessively since that awful day.

As each trail ran cold, each hope proved fruitless, those imaginary scenarios had shifted. Loving, relieved, joyful, hurt, furious. He thought he had considered every possible emotion he might feel.

Instead there was only a suffocating lack of any emotion, as if he were holding his breath and waiting for the right one to arrive.

He had dreamed up speeches, recriminations, righteous, raging rants.

He couldn't think of any of them, his eye trained on a thin trail of blood from a lip split in the struggle, the sound of her ragged breathing loud in his ears.

 _I ought to be angry_ , a remote corner of his brain noted. _After all she's put me through. I shouldn't care_.

The stubborn voice whispered back that he still didn't know the circumstances of her disappearance, that it might have been out of her control.

But a tiny, hurt, childish part of himself had never cared about her _intentions_ , or her _circumstances_. Just that, one way or another, she had caused him pain.

He tried his best to glare.

"Frank?" She sounded strangely tentative and (he was secretly pleased to note) yearning, as if she barely dared to hope it was him.

He spread his arms, gesticulating hugely, as he always did when he was annoyed.

"Who else _would_ I be, Claire?"

She laughed jaggedly, hiccoughed then, without any warning, threw herself into his arms.

He caught her without thinking, arms circling around her protectively, one hand beginning to rub her back as he always did when she was upset.

She pulled herself closer, burrowing under his coat, one hand fisting a handful of his shirt, the other following his example and slipping all the way round to stroke the contours of his back.

She was gasping and shuddering, sobbing his name into his chest and laughing brokenly. He could feel his shirt getting wet and despite it all, he felt water on his own face.

He kissed the top of her head and hugged her tighter.

Perhaps later he could be annoyed,

For now, all was forgiven.


End file.
